The State of Me

by Nasim Marie Jafry

  I had a lovely birthday even though I wished you were here every minute. I pampered myself with a strawberry face mask and peppermint oil on my feet. Rita made lasagne. It was delicious but I kept thinking the pasta sheets looked like big flaps of skin. We had non-alcoholic sparkling wine. Rita and Nab got me that Diane Arbus book I told you about. I love it.

  Jana and Callum came and Sean brought Nellie. I really don’t like her. She’s big-headed and I know she doesn’t believe in ME. She thinks ‘cos she’s studying psychology she knows everything, but Sean is besotted and is now vegetarian. And my granny and grandad and Brian came. Brian got me a big box of Milk Tray and tried to deliver it like the advert. He was wearing a black polo and left the chocolates on the hall table.

  I read out bits of your letters to everyone. My grandad said his usual, The young ones have a great life nowadays, as if he used to work down the mines. My granny entertained us with her recycled stories of swinging on trees and growing up in the Highlands.

  Went to see Withnail and I at the ABC with Rita and Nab. It’s so funny (I’ll see it with you when you’re home if you want) but the bastards wouldn’t give me a concession with my sickness benefit book. They said I needed a UB40. I felt so humiliated, like I was scrounging.

  I’ve been reading The Third Policeman, the Flann O’Brien book your mum lent me. Bicycles and humans interchange atoms, the bikes are so cheeky, they eat crumbs and sneak up to the fire to get warm. And the more time people spend on their bikes, the higher the percentage of bicycle they have in them. It cracks me up. You have to read it sometime!

  Jana hates her IT course. She has to do Pascal programming and says it’s too fucking hard. I think she wishes she’d gone back to San Fran after all but I’m SO glad she’s still here. I couldn’t do without her AND you at the same time.

  I almost forgot, Rez phoned on my birthday, which was lovely. He’s knackered working a hundred hours a week. He says he’s so tired he wouldn’t notice if his mother died.

  And guess what – I finally finished that blanket for wee Zoe! (About time. I was sick of the sight of it.)

  What else? I watched a documentary about a forty-year-old guy with Parkinson’s. He feels like he’s constantly got an electric current in his body and he alternates between being snaky and jerky. The poor guy used to be a climbing instructor and now he can hardly have a game of pool. (They used to think Parkinson’s was psychosomatic in the ‘30s.)

  Phone me as soon as you get back to London. I’m sending this to Delhi.

  Lots and lots of love,

  Looby-wallah xxx

  PS. I love suffixing with ‘wallah’.

  Brian was looking at the Diane Arbus book, studying every page. These people are funny looking, he said.

  They’re not really funny looking, I said, just different.

  It had never occurred – and would never occur – to Brian that he was funny looking too with his big squarish head and thick lips.

  Look, he said, it’s Valerie and Moira!

  He was pointing to a photo of two women with Down’s syndrome wearing Easter bonnets.

  You’re havering, I said. They’re nothing like Valerie and Moira.

  I think it’s their double, he said.

  How is Valerie, by the way? I said.

  I think she’s a lot better.

  Are you sure? I didn’t think she was going to get better.

  Well, I think she’s fine now. She’s much better.

  And is Moira still your girlfriend?

  Don’t be silly, Helen! he said. Moira’s Frank’s girlfriend! I told you that before.

  Sorry, I said. I lose track. I can’t keep up with your shenanigans.

  What’s shenanigans?

  Just chopping and changing your mind all the time.

  Well, is Ivan still your boyfriend?

  I hope so, I said. He’s in India just now. Remember I showed you on the map?

  Will he be brown when he comes home?

  Yeah, he’ll have a great tan. It’s boiling over there.

  Is it as boiling as Alicante?

  Much more boiling, I said.

  Two weeks before Christmas, penguin count seven.

  When the phone rang, I thought it would be Rita reminding me to defrost the chicken.

  Long distance clicks and an operator with such a strong Indian accent it sounded like a parody.

  Then Ivan.

  I can’t believe it’s you! I said. Where are you?! Are you okay?!

  I’m back in Delhi. Did you get my letter?

  I got one two weeks ago from Goa.

  You haven’t had the one since then?

  No. What’s wrong? You sound funny.

  Listen, Looby, I’m not coming home at New Year. I’m travelling for longer. I wrote to you about it but I wanted to tell you properly…I’ve met a great crowd of people and we’re going to Tibet. I want to do some trekking. I managed to change my ticket and my dad wired me some money.

  Hollow/dull/solid air.

  I stared at Nab’s almanacs lined up on the hall shelf with their orange spines and black lettering: Hvem, Hvad, Hvor.

  Are you still there? said Ivan.

  Too hollow, too dull.

  Helen?

  I’m still here, I said, choking on tears the size of pears.

  Listen to me, he said. Please don’t cry. I’ll be back at the end of March, beginning of April. It’s not that long. I’ll write all the time. I promise.

  I’ve been looking forward to you coming home for the last ten weeks, I said, it’s all I think about, it’s what keeps me going! Why do you need another three months?!

  I might nip to Thailand too.

  Trapped under dry thick ice. No point speaking. The almanacs were chanting their black spines at me.

  I can’t hear you, he said. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow. It’s really expensive to call if you’re not speaking. I’ll call you to tomorrow at the same time.

  I made a noise, some numb word.

  Bye, Looby.

  Long distance click. Gone. He hadn’t said he loved me.

  Hollow

  Hollow

  Hollow

  Hvem

  Hvad

  Hvor

  Round window. A thin girl is lying on the hall floor, sobbing and talking to herself. She has just had a phone call from India. She is crying so much she is retching. She goes to the bathroom and spits acid saliva into the toilet bowl. She moves into the living room. She kneels down and sobs on the Chesterfield. She can taste salty tears against leather.

  After a long time, she makes some tea.

  After two sips she runs to the toilet and throws up. Her tongue feels like carpet. She goes upstairs and continues to wrack herself with tears.

  Later, Agnes appears, nosing and purring into her face.

  The bastard’s not coming back, Agnes, she whimpers. He’s not coming back. What am I going to do?!

  Agnes climbs over her head, and Helen sees the lesion on the cat’s abdomen for the first time. She forces the cat still and peers at the dried-in wound. She kisses her head and goes downstairs and looks for a vet in the phonebook. She is shaking.

  The receptionist has a catarrhy voice and says it’s probably just a scratch. They are fully booked for a week, but because of Helen’s voice, which is woven with two-ply grief – Ivan grief AND Agnes grief – she gets an appointment for three days later.

  Helen goes back upstairs and writes IVAN IS A CUNT in her diary.

  What on earth’s the matter? says Rita when she gets in from work. You look awful. Are you feeling ill?

  Ivan’s not coming back and Agnes has got a tumour, I say.

  What are you talking about?!

  I describe the afternoon’s events and my mother sighs.

  You have to be strong, she says for the nth time since I’ve been ill. You can’t let yourself get upset, you’ll undo the good the ACTH is doing. You have to get on with your life and let Ivan get on with his. That’s all there
is about it. When he phones tomorrow, no more tears. You can’t afford to be this upset. You’ll only make yourself ill.

  I already am ill, I say. (My voice is husky from retching. I sound quite sexy.)

  You know what I mean, she says, frowning. I’m going to unpack the groceries. Come and help me. It’ll take your mind off things.

  It’s so fucking typical of Ivan, I say, following her into the kitchen. He’s always chopping and changing his plans. I’m sick of it. I mean you don’t nip to Thailand, do you?! You plan it. You plan ahead.

  It’s not really Ivan you’re angry with, is it? Rita says more gently. It’s your situation you’re kicking against. But I wish you wouldn’t swear. You know I don’t like the f word.

  How does he know I wouldn’t have dumped him by now if I wasn’t ill?! He’s a cocky bastard, thinks he can gallivant round the world and I’ll just be here waiting like the good little woman. Well, he can think again!

  That’s the spirit, says Rita. It’s better to be angry than sad. Can you put the eggs away, please? The old ones will need to go out. It’s ridiculous that we waste so many eggs in this house.

  D’you think he’s met someone else, Mum?

  I don’t know, Helen. I honestly don’t know. All I do know is that your priority is to get well. You can’t spend every minute worrying about what Ivan’s doing. You have to concentrate on your friends here. Why don’t you phone Callum and ask him for tea at the weekend?

  You’ve changed your tune, I say. I thought you didn’t like him.

  Well, maybe I was wrong about him. I was very impressed with the way he spoke to Brian at your birthday. He treated him normally and didn’t find it hard to talk to him like some people do.

  He’s a nice guy, I say, but what’ll I do if Ivan’s met someone?

  You’ll cope, says my mother. You have no choice. Is the chicken fully defrosted yet?

  I think so, I say, but I can’t eat anything. My stomach’s unfolding.

  Dear Looby,

  It’s the middle of the night, no birds yet. The gales have stopped and it’s very quiet but I can’t sleep. Ivan’s not coming home for another three months. It’s only him phoning tomorrow that’s keeping me going. I’ve just been into the garden. It was bleak like a Beckett play. (Waiting for Ivan, ha ha.) The ground was frosty and the leaves looked hard but they were soft to walk on. I had on Nab’s sheepskin and Rita’s gardening shoes. She’s a size smaller and I felt like I had Chinese bandaged feet. The moon looked like a cataract. Ivan said if you look at the moon on Ganesh day it’s bad luck and you have to cross your arms and touch your ears. I looked at it deliberately tonight to piss Ganesh off. He doesn’t remove obstacles, he makes them. I thought of going into the park to spite Ivan. I wanted to climb the Michael tree and sit in its huge branches, holding me safe like a basket, but I couldn’t even have jumped the ditch, and I’d have been terrified in the dark.

  I’ve cut the buttons off his suede jacket and ripped up his last letter. I threw Ganesh away too but took him out of the bin later in case he puts a curse on me. Nab said that Ivan’s not trying to hurt me, he’s just a young man ‘opening his wings’. Rita’s mad at me and says she can’t cope with me being so dramatic. She says I don’t seem to realise how much my illness affects everyone else. I wish so much she didn’t have to worry about me.

  I am so afraid that I am never going to be well and this is my life forever. I could take paracetamol but it would kill Rita and they’d probably rescue me and I’d end up with brain damage and ME, dribbling all the time. And if it does work, your liver packs in and you go through agony before you die. I wish I’d paid more attention to poisonous plants at primary school. I just want to be in a deep sleep and wake up when Ivan kisses me. What will I do? With best wishes Helen.

  Dear Helen,

  All I can suggest is eating daffodil bulbs – they’re toxic, can be fatal, especially to dogs – and lying in a glass coffin until Ivan gets back. Or you could try rhododendrons, they’re toxic too, but maybe they need to be in flower. With best wishes

  Looby.

  PS. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

  Lunchtime next day. All night, sleep broken by jagged truth.

  She trudges down to the kitchen. A postcard of the Taj Mahal and a Christmas card with writing she half recognises are propped up against the marmalade jar.

  Dear Looby,

  Saw Taj Mahal glittering at sunrise. Mind-blowing but Agra is awful. It’s all carpet factories and scams. Going back to Delhi. Will write properly soon.

  Love, Ivan.

  Helen rips up the postcard. The swing-bin is full. She scatters Ivan’s words on top of Rita’s grapefruit skins and presses down. (Grapefruit smells like sweat. She doesn’t know how Rita can stand it. It’s some diet she’s on.) Scraps of card with ‘love’ and ‘Looby’ fall onto the floor. Helen thinks of the tins of words you got at primary school. You learned to read, just to cut up the words years later when your boyfriend breaks your heart.

  She opens the Christmas card. It’s from Rachel. Another fucking penguin (on skis with a stripy scarf tied round its neck).

  Underneath JOY TO YOU AT CHRISTMAS, Rachel has written: How are you feeling these days? If you picked up the phone, you might fucking know, Helen says, throwing the card onto the table.

  She makes some weak black tea. She looks at the hands of the kitchen clock.

  They are slug-slow.

  She needs to have a shower – she can smell herself – but she’s scared she’ll miss him phoning. She cleans her teeth at least. She can’t bear the velvety coating of unbrushed teeth.

  The bathroom window is open and she can hear Agnes miaowing. She rinses her mouth and goes to the back door. Agnes is stuck up the tree in Richard’s garden again.

  Helen sighs and puts on Nab’s sheepskin and goes out to rescue Agnes, with Chinese bandaged feet. She hopes Richard’s mum isn’t in. She can’t face anyone. She climbs onto the low iron fence that separates their gardens, leans against the shed and stretches into the tree. A branch stabs her in the face.

  Come down, you stupid cat! It’s freezing out here.

  She gets dizzy and has to steady herself. She can feel her thighs pimpling. She reaches up to grab the cat again but Agnes is nailed to the tree.

  Agnes, for fuck’s sake, will you come down? My arms are knackered. I’m not a fireman.

  She pleads and cajoles until Agnes gives in, allowing herself to be plucked. Helen clutches her with one arm, using the other to lean on the shed. As she climbs down, she skins her shin. Agnes is rigid with resistance but Helen manages to keep hold of her until she’s inside the house.

  The rescue of Agnes has taken eight minutes.

  She goes into the bathroom and dabs her scraped leg with TCP. It’s agony. She thinks of when her and Rachel used to spend hours skinning the bark off thick rhododendron branches, to see the shiny bone colour underneath.

  She goes into Nab and Rita’s room and lies down. She is still wearing Nab’s sheepskin. She kicks off Rita’s shoes. Her toes are numb and she’s sure she’ll get chilblains. She lifts the receiver on the phone next to the bed to check the dialling tone.

  She feels calmer in here. It’s a change of scene. She closes her eyes and tries not to look at the clock. She manages ten minutes. She rolls out of Nab’s coat and throws it on the floor. There’s a compact mirror and eyebrow tweezer on Rita’s bedside cabinet. She starts plucking her eyebrows but her arms are burning from Agnes and she can’t finish. She tries another ten minutes of not looking. She is staring at the Artex ceiling when the phone rings.

  It’s Rita to see if he’s called yet.

  Not yet, says Helen, but you have to hang up in case he’s trying to get through! She is furious at her mother for calling and getting her hopes up.

  Remember to stay cool, says Rita.

  I will, says Helen. I have to go, Mum. She puts the receiver down and warns the phone not to ring again unless it’s Ivan.

  Ag
nes has come into the bedroom and is standing on Nab’s coat. She looks retarded. Helen leans over and lifts her onto the bed. You shouldn’t be in here, Agnes. You know Nab doesn’t like you on the bed, especially with wounds.

  The cat climbs on top of her and starts kneading her with her paws as if she’s standing in syrup. She still smells cold from being outdoors. You’re not well, Helen says. You shouldn’t be going up trees. You should be resting.

  The kneading tickles Helen and makes her laugh – the minutes seem to drag less. When the phone rings (two on the dot, as good as his word) Agnes jumps off the bed.

  Hi, it’s me. Are you a bit calmer now? he says.

  Not really, says Helen. (She is happy he sounds sheepish.) I threw up after you phoned and I didn’t sleep last night. All I can eat is toast.

  God, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you when I’m home. I promise.

  Ivan, you’ve made a fool out of me. Here’s me keeping your letters under my pillow and reciting them to everyone and you turn round and do this.

  I haven’t made a fool of you. I tell everyone I meet about you. What a fighter you are.

  Fuck off, Ivan. (Into herself.)

  Well, I don’t feel like a fighter anymore. And, by the way, Agnes might have cancer.

  Poor Agnes, he says, but she’s old, isn’t she? Listen, Rez is coming out to Delhi for a family wedding at the beginning of January. You can give him a letter if you want. It’ll be quicker than the mail.

  So Rez has known about this all along? He could have said – he’s a bastard too!

  It’s not Rez’s fault I’m staying, Helen.

  She doesn’t answer.

  Are you still there?

  Yup, she says.

  How are you anyway?

  I told you in my letter. I’ve started the ACTH injections.

  Are they helping?

  A little. Who exactly are you going to Tibet with?

  Just some people I’ve met.

  Some people? Do they not have names, these people?

  Of course they have names.